Script
by Angie Anonymous
Summary: How stupid does he really think she is? No one can write like that, no one but him.


**I got bored, so I started reading outtakes for New Moon on , and there was one about Edward leaving Bella a shit load of money for college, and disguising himself as this guy so she wouldn't know it was him...well, whatever, I can't explain it, so you should go read it! Anyways, yeah, so this popped into my head. It doesn't happen, obviously, just imagine it thrown in after the first part of the outtake. Hope you like it! Oh, and it switches from Bella's POV to Edward's. But I'm pretty sure you can tell where. :)  
**

**Love,**

**Angie Anonymous**

* * *

He left me. He left me months ago, in the forest, alone, cold, and slowly dying.

And now he shoves twenty-thousand dollars down my throat? Oh, not to mention the five-thousand a month I'll be receiving. It made no sense. No sense at all.

I trudged resolutely through the rain, clutching my jacket around me. Hadn't he said something about 'a clean break', or 'non-interference'? Well, this was clearly interfering, maybe not to the endlessly wealthy Edward Cullen, but it definitely was to the middle-class Isabella Swan.

His name made my heart wrench, and I quickly pushed it away. Fine, let the bastard shove the money down my throat. Let him keep wasting his funds on me. He can give me whatever he wants, it doesn't mean I have to use it.

Hah! The loophole of the century. I chuckled almost manically as I unlocked the door to my house and shoved through it, pulling off my sopping jacket as I did. I shook my hair out from under the hood and stalked past the kitchen, intent upon finding a dry pair of pants, when a flicker of movement in my peripherals stopped me in my determined tracks.

My hand was raised, half reaching toward the banister of the stairs, my other one hanging limply at my side. My left foot was paused just above the bottom stair. Nothing human could have moved that fast.

Clumsily, I tottered my way into the kitchen. Everything seemed to be in place, not a chair moved, the mail left exactly where I'd placed it on the table that morning. The only new addition was a torn scrap of paper, taped to the counter top.

I debated with myself for a few long, agonizing moments. I wanted to read that note. Or, rather, half of me wanted to read that note. The other half, the more sensible fifty percent, was screaming at me to tell Charlie that some crazed weirdo was leaving me notes in our kitchen. In the end, my curiosity won over.

I slowly stepped toward the paper, scanning the floor in front of me carefully, half expecting something to leap out at me. With my luck, someone would. It may have been a cruel joke, but as I reached toward the note, I knew exactly who had written it.

"_Bella,_

_Take the money. Stop being so stubborn. Live your life._"

There was no signature, no clue to who could have written it. But the cursive, that beautiful flow of ink on the page…it could only be his.

I felt as if I was choking, as if all the air had been stolen from my lungs. My throat constricted painfully as the tears spilled over my eye-lids, dripping onto the still wet ink. He'd just been here, moments ago. He must have been at the bank, too, if he'd known.

He wasn't gone. He was still here. And that hurt much more than if he'd just _stayed away_.

"Damn you," I sobbed, gripping the ragged piece of paper to my chest and sinking to the ground, leaning against the cabinets. "Damn you, Edward, can't you make up your fucking mind?!" His name burned my mouth on the way out, like I'd swallowed fire. I had to be dreaming, I wanted so desperately for this to be another nightmare, and I'd wake up. I smacked the back of my head against the cabinet door, hard, hoping maybe it'd jar me to consciousness.

Nothing changed. Tears still spilled across my cheeks, and the ripping sensation in my chest was still there. I wasn't in my bed. I was still on the kitchen floor. "Edward," I sobbed, dropping the paper and covering my face.

Had he no idea what he was doing to me? I was starting to be okay. Well, not really, I'd never be okay. But I was getting better. Another sob pulled from my throat.

Damn him! Damn him to hell! He was _here_. He was so close. And he'd still left me. _Again_. I wondered vaguely if he could hear me.

"I get it," I finally choked, relenting, and dropping to my side. I curled into a ball, tucking my knees under my chin. "You don't love me, I get it." It hurt all the more to have to, finally, admit it out loud.

* * *

"_You don't love me, I get it."_

Did she really think that? She mustn't be as perceptive as I thought.

I clung to the base of the tree, watching her silently through the window. She'd fallen to her side, and curled up against the cupboards. My dead heart wrenched.

"Bella," I whispered, too quietly for her to hear. It hadn't done me any good to finally speak her name after all these months. I'd refrained from it, thinking that, maybe, it'd make this easier on me. Nothing was easy on me anymore. Breathing was even hard, even though I knew I needn't suck up any of the oxygen the actual living human beings needed.

She was still sobbing. My note had floated away from her, landing a few inches away on the linoleum. Her tears had smudged my writing so that you could barely read what I'd scrawled. She looked as if she'd been thinking hard on her way into the house. About what, I wonder? Being unable to read her mind still troubled me, even after all this time.

All this time, that I could have spent with her.

A tearless sob escaped my chest. My greatest urge was to sweep her up off of the floor and kiss her, promise her that I was there. That I loved her. Which I did, of course, I'd never stopped.

Maybe my plan was working, then. Maybe after this she'd hate me enough to just forget me. I could only hope for so much.

With that, I stole one last look at the girl I loved, before stealing back through the trees.


End file.
